


la petite mort

by fundamentalnsfw (fundamentalBlue)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24337507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fundamentalBlue/pseuds/fundamentalnsfw
Summary: One brush against la petite mort is enough to induce paroxysms of arousal that if left unabated, cause paralysis, and then death.The only solution: shag or die.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 13
Kudos: 107
Collections: Tomione Smut Fest 2020





	la petite mort

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [TomioneSmutFest20](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomioneSmutFest20) collection. 



> Written for the 2020 Tomione Smutfest. Thanks to HausCrashBurn and weestarmeggie for giving this an alpha/beta. Thank you!!

“How do you want to do this?” They’re stuck in the greenhouse, as much inside of it as they are trying to keep others out. This is a mess, a total disaster, and neither one of them can look the other in the eye. Tom is fiddling with his wand, staring at a fixed point on the floor, like he’s willing it to catch fire.

“Not with you,” Hermione says. Her robes are too hot on her flesh, scratching at the oversensitive skin that’s flaring up all over her body. She wants to peel it off, sink herself into a tub full of cool water. Maybe the lake–

“So you’d rather have detention and lose the House Cup for your precious Gryffindors?” And Merlin be damned that none of her fantasies are going to work. Because they, the two brightest, most rule-abiding denizens of Hogwarts school for witchcraft and wizardry, have knocked over the la petite mort. 

As a muggle phrase, it’s deceiving. This would be amusing, funny even, if it weren’t for the double meaning behind the disturbing plant. Muggles think it refers to orgasm, and it does, but it also refers to how close you come to death. And this particular plant will tip, tilt and teeter you over the edge, should you not follow its very specific methods for avoiding that fate. 

How and why the plant got this way is lost to history, but Hermione suspects it was always meant to be a magical trap. One brush against la petite mort is enough to induce paroxysms of arousal that if left unabated, cause paralysis, and then death. 

The only solution: shag or die. 

“I’m not the only one with a reputation to lose, Riddle. I think it would be quite funny if Abraxas caught you with a muggle-born.” They have so little time, and it’s dripping away all too quickly. There’s a reality that Hermione doesn’t wish to confront, but if she has to, she’s going to be clinical, precise–

“Even if that muggle-born were you?” Tom interrupts her thoughts, again. His eyes are lingering on her face now, seeking as he often does in class. She imagines him worrying his way into her mind, plucking at the scales of her defenses. It frightens her that she doesn’t know what he wants, and yet he pushes into her life anyway. Answers questions before she can get a hand up. Borrows that extra book she wanted for further research in class. Graciously volunteers to help professors out to spend more one-on-one time with, which Hermione refuses to share with him. 

Loathsome, beautiful parasite. 

“I’m not daft enough to not do this with you. Life or death, and all that.” It comes out in a somewhat Lancaster drawl that she knows Tom despises. Tom, with his lustrous hair, verdant eyes, and a deep dislike of all things impoverished and muggle. 

“You’re not wrong. We wouldn’t make it to the dorms,” he pauses, eyes lingering on the now-righted plant that’s the catalyst of these events. “Ok, we’ll make a basic vow.” 

“Fine. Hurry up. We have about five minutes.” This negotiation is tedious. There’s no possible way that Hermione would have agreed to this otherwise, but she doesn’t want to drag anyone else into this. Further, Professor Sprout had given them this project with the expectation that they would not even touch the plant. And if you asked anyone, even Hermione, sex with one Tom Riddle was preferable to detention, or worse, a ‘T’ on the entire project. 

After the vow, they step back and eye each other up with disdain. 

“This is your fault, you know.” He must know what she’s thinking, because he says the one thing that consumes her. She should have been more alert, ready to thwart whatever Tom threw at her. Instead– instead, she’d flailed at him in exasperation. And that was all it took to knock down the precariously positioned plant. 

“My fault? You have no sense of accountability whatsoever!” Hermione wouldn’t have been gesticulating if it hadn’t been for Tom’s insistence that they should imbue magic when they added the nitrogen, and that it should be separate from the phosphorus and potassium. They didn’t have separate nitrogen, but instead were using Hippogriff dung, which Professor Sprout wouldn’t have given them if it didn’t work as is! But no, Tom insisted on a separate source for Nitrogen, and narrowed his hateful gaze at her when she told him to go get it himself before he said ‘I guess you just weren’t prepared, then.’ 

And oh, he is on her very last nerve. Even now. 

“And you have no respect–” Tom loves to pontificate, and even if he isn’t a bloviating arsehole, though still an arsehole, Hermione would love it if he would just belt up, for the love of Merlin.

“Respect?! As if you deserve–” 

“–for your betters–”

“–any esteem at all, ever–”

“–and who has the best grade in DADA? It’s not bloody well you.” And ouch, that stings, but it’s true. Tom had only just knocked Harry on his bum last week with a well placed Descendo, something that neither of them would have expected to be used in a duel. But Hermione isn’t down and out for the count; there are plenty of things she’s better than Tom at. 

“Charms.” Hermione tilts her head and smiles, and knows that the curl of her lips is a malicious thing. 

“Divination.” She barks out a laugh at that. Of course Tom would prioritize that useless class.

“Transfiguration.” Most of the time she could transfigure the objects before he could, even if he was just a step behind. 

“That’s a given.” He snorts, and it’s a human sound, something that shouldn’t come out of his flawless mouth. Circe, this pollen is strong. Usually she can’t stand to look at Tom’s symmetrical face for longer than it takes to sneer back at him. 

“And Potions isn’t?” He scowls at her, his mask back in place. 

“Fine, Charms,” Tom says.

“Arithmancy.” Even glowering, Tom is oh so pretty. The fine cut of his jaw trailing back to a pale, elegant neck. Not a hint of a five ‘o clock shadow on his face. His robes fall perfectly into regulation, just like Hermione’s. She swears she wouldn’t hate him as much as she did if he didn’t take everything she was good at and pervert it in order to use his power to lord it over people. Hermione loved her rules; Tom just followed them because they were useful. How come no one else could see it? Even Harry thought Tom was harmless. Harry, who thinks Malfoy is perpetually up to something!

“Astronomy.” 

“Herbology,” she dares to say as he scoffs. Circe, it’s hot in here, and she feels a rather nasty sensation of sweat creeping its way down her spine. She looks over at Tom and notices that some of his hair is plastered to his forehead and he has a look on his face that she can only interpret as hunger. His eyes are so green, but as he takes a step closer and his face hits a sunbeam, she can see a rusty brown, no, red, like the color of dried blood, sliding behind the green, sinuous. 

This way lies ruin, she knows, but she takes a step towards him anyway. 

They’re both silent now, out of classes to compete in, and entirely disinterested in the subject. This won’t be clear-cut and efficient at all. No, it’s going to be feral. Unchecked. 

She can feel herself rationalizing, justifying her hindbrain’s inclinations. He’s as smart as she is, dazzling in his intellect. This isn’t wrong– can’t be wrong. It’s more than just the plant. He’s always wanted to consume her, and if she’s telling the truth to herself now, she’s always wanted to be devoured. 

The string between them pulls tight as they face one another, Tom’s lips parted with the pink of his tongue peeking out between them for the shortest moment before it disappears again. 

Which is when he grabs the lapels of her shirt in a crushing grip and yanks her forward. 

She keeps her eyes open; she doesn’t want to lose a single moment of the way Tom’s lips part slowly, the tilt of his head giving her better access. His eyes flutter closed so quickly and she gives herself to Tom entirely. Eager, hollow with need, overrun with greed for him. Hermione feels it, when Tom’s tongue slices between her lips, prying them open with methodical thrusts of his tongue. 

The kiss deepens, and she wonders if Tom feels the yearning that is climbing up from her stomach to her chest to her throat and mouth. She doesn’t detect longing behind his touch, but dominion over her, and yes, that she feels pressing into her from all sides. 

His hand is tightening around her collar, dragging her closer, and she’s dizzy as she trails her hands over Tom’s back, feeling the sharpness of his shoulder blades under the robes. The urgency is so strong now, and Tom tastes delicious, like sweet and light mint with a hint of dark chocolate. Hermione kisses back with passion, her hands sliding back up to Tom’s neck to grip the corded muscles on either side of his spine. She never knew he had such definition, and the shock of it causes her to gently nip at Tom’s lower lip, pulling it between her teeth, and sucking lightly as she feels Tom shudder. 

Lightheaded, she notes her own hands loosening the tie at her throat, her eyes locked on Tom’s. He mirrors her, gesture for gesture, pulling down the knot and slipping the soft fabric out of the collar. He lets it hang around his neck as their fingers each stray to the buttons of their robes. Their faces stay locked together throughout, as best they can, and it’s avaricious, decadent.

Before she can think, breathe, they’re down to their underthings. But it feels like battle armor; Hermione is powerful before him, filled with righteous demand for Tom, as he must be for her. There is nothing more right than this and they crash into one another as if they’d been orchestrated. It’s fury, their teeth at each other’s throats, nicking skin with sharp bites and laving the marks back. Her hand finds its way to Tom’s boxers, and she teases the band around his waist, seeking entrance. It slips under her fingernails and she reaches down and down, past the warm patch of hair to the even warmer cock that’s waiting for her. 

Tom is roving down her chest now, body bent at an awkward angle that Hermione might have found uncomfortable if the result wasn’t so profound. He’s pulled her brassiere down and is lapping at her peaked nipples, switching between a hand and his mouth for each one. Looking down, she can see they’re rosy red, and in between her breasts there is the lump of her hand fisted over Tom. 

Merlin, she has to see him, and she carefully pulls him out of confinement. It’s a fat cock, thick, long, and with a slight curve upward. 

She slips her fingers around the shaft then, and twirls it in a languid spiral, pulling her hands up and back towards Tom’s weeping head. It’s swollen, red to the point of being almost purple, and she presses the pad of her thumb into the roundness of his glans. When he groans into her breasts, the sound is eaten up by the greenery around them, and Hermione feels a momentary thrill at being caught, at the door opening and there would stand her friends, watching her fondle Tom Riddle’s cock while he sucks at her tits. 

Her hands are so small on his cock, so she adds another, wanting to see him swallowed in her flesh. Tom’s eyes are alight with an intensity she’s only dreamed about. 

With an indecent slurp, he pulls off her breast, dragging the nipple with him as far as it will go, and it stings something fierce as he pops off of it. She wants to glare at him, but the lascivious look he’s giving her stops her in her tracks. 

“Get on the table, Hermione. I’m going to fuck that pretty quim of yours.” 

The words ripple through her, and she scrambles to obey, not sparing more than a second to think about why she should listen or not. Tom is going to shag her. Her, Hermione. Over a filthy herbology table, and oh Circe does she ever want that. 

“If you could always be like this, so pliant and sweet, I think I could begin to like you.” She’s climbing to get up on the table as he says it, and on her hands and knees she cranes her neck around to face him. He looks debauched, red marks dotting his neck and chest, hair a mess, and lips kiss-stung. She wants to wreck him again, put him back together, and then knock him down once more. 

“You want me quiet Tom? I can do quiet.” Hermione can do anything, anything for Tom. She’ll prove it, show him. 

“That sounds like you want me to regret saying that. How about for once, you don’t question anything, or contradict me in any way. How about you just do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it instead of running off your boffin little mouth, hmm?” And if that doesn’t make her cunt clench with need. She can’t wait for him to shut her up, maybe with his cock.

“So I’m supposed to just let you have your way, no questions or concerns.” The table is cold under her arse as she settles down on it, hands propped up behind her for support. He has perfect access to her now, and she lewdly ledges her heels on the edge of the table so she can spread her legs for him. His face does not disappoint as his eyes zero in on her. 

“That’s right. No need to write an essay on all the things I may want to do to you. Just shut your mouth, and listen to me.” She’s beginning to think it’s a good idea to goad him, if only so that she can make her own pussy weep with arousal. Maybe he’ll lap it up, or use it as lube for her arsehole, if he wants that too. 

“I think that’s something you have to earn, Tom.” She sneers at him, enjoying as his face twists in anger. He stalks towards her, hand fisted over his leaking cock as he lines up in front of her. 

“Is it? I think it’s something I’m entitled to.” 

“Oh? Well, by all means, let’s see how much of a master you actually are.” It’s prodding enough that he jams his head against her nether lips, jerking it around to find the perfect angle to shove in. When he does, it hurts so good, and she groans, throwing her head back with abandon. At that, he drives in again, so agonizingly harsh. She peers through her wet bangs at him, but Tom is razor-sharp focused on the sight of him moving in and out of her at punishing speed. He keeps his hands at her ankles, thumbs pressed into the dip under her Achilles tendons. 

“Going to keep you like this, ready for me. Take you wherever I want–”

She never knew she had an appetite for this. That she wanted someone to take her rough and use her. But it feels heavenly to be a vessel for Tom’s pleasure. A treasured item that’s his.

Tom steps closer and grasps at her hips now, bodily pulling her down on him, panting. 

Hermione is aware of it all, the way Tom’s fingers are digging into her hips now, the way his cock catches on the rim of her cunt as he pulls all the way out and back in again. She’s aware of the pain, stretching through her muscles and lingering at the focal points of her body; her nipples, the ache of her clit, the spread and burn of her insides as Tom rearranges them, forced so wide open by his cock. The friction is engrossing, honing her down to an instrument in which Tom sheathes himself again and again. 

“This is what you’re good for. This is where you should be forever. Under me– obedient–”

She doesn’t want to fight it, it’s all so immediate, and she’s wrecked, open, so helpless and needing. There’s nothing for her to do; she’s being taken, had, and it’s all a blur, the greenery surrounding her turning to a smear at the edges of her vision. All that’s left is Tom, gorgeous, dangerous Tom that is all things erotic and possessive as he leans into her, claiming. 

She wants the bruises he’s going to leave, small and beautiful on her body. She wants the ache of her cunt for days and days. She wants him to take everything from her that makes her Hermione. Pull and strip away the layers of insecurity, doubt, and leave her a writhing thing on the end of his cock. The powerlessness of it all burns fire bright inside her, and she lets out a pathetic whimper as he continues to slide in and out of her with ease, her cunt positively gagging for it as her juices make a wet suction sound as he pulls out. 

It’s starting to build, a coiled tension in her spine. Tom is single-minded now, towering over her as she finally opens her eyes to look into his. There’s something raw in them, unbridled and bestial. How she wants it. More than anything she wants him to split her apart and find the ugly things inside of her and wrench them out into the light. 

The tension builds until she realizes she needs more, just– more, in order to come. As she reaches down, Tom bats her hand away before grasping her wrist and slamming it on the table. 

“No. You take what I give you.” 

“But please, Tom, I need–”

“You come on my cock or not at all.” His smile is mocking. The cruelty he’s always had is something she’s imagined, but never seen. It’s like seeing the face of God, a revelation. He’s going to wreck her, annihilate her for anyone else. This whole time she’s known deep inside that this is the pollen working on them, but what if it’s not? If this is Tom, she’s not sure she can ever give this up. The things he makes her feel unravel her world view and narrow it down to him. 

With one hand on the offending wrist, Tom reaches down and shoves two of his fingers in her mouth. She gags immediately as he depresses her tongue and slides back towards her throat. He backs up, but doesn’t leave her mouth. 

“I think I’ll attempt to teach you to take my cock without choking, or maybe not. You look so good when you can’t take it. Fuck, I want to force myself down your throat.” And in vicious betrayal, her body responds to his words like magic. 

Her climax hits as Tom pulls his fingers out of her mouth, rolling in waves through her gut, before it takes on a frantic burst of sensation and sweeps through again with increased violence. It’s unstoppable, inexorable, and so hot and good and sweet that when she finally gets enough breath to moan, it’s low and long, helpless, full of pleading and begging for mercy. Tom offers her no quarter, and continues to take her, blow after blow of his hip bones smashing into her arse, the obscene sounds of his balls hitting her puckered hole driving her into a new level of shame. 

Finally, he stops, and for a moment, Hermione thinks he’s come, but she can’t feel anything but the burning heat of her used channel. Which is when Tom presses his wet fingers to her back entrance, shocking her into a feeble squeak of protest. 

“Shh, Hermione, let me have this too. Want to dirty you up. Want you to think about this when you’re in class, my cock up your arse. I’m going to make you sit on it, watch you bounce.” He drags her up and off the table, and then transfigures it into a chair before sitting down. Hermione feels like she can’t walk, her legs wobbly with disuse, an ache in every corner of her body. She turns around anyway to look at Tom, who is gazing back with a scorching lust.

He pats his lap like she’s a dog that he’s calling to heel. It doesn’t surprise her that she goes to him, sliding one leg over his and resting her weight on his lap as she swings the other up. His cock is cradled in her crack, thick and wet. She can feel his knuckles moving on her skin as he fucks his hand. 

“Stand up a little now, there’s a good girl.” Fluid and boneless, she does so, waiting for further instruction. 

“I’d get you all nice and loose, but I rather like the idea of hearing you cry when you’re forced down on it. Do you want that, Hermione?” 

“Merlin, yes Tom, please!” His smile is wicked, his lips curling up on one side as he poises himself at her back entrance and begins to push. 

It bloody hurts.

“Bear down, love, it’ll make it easier.” She lets out an embarrassing grunt as she does so, and he’s right. She opens up and the head of Tom’s cock slips in and sits rigid inside of her. The pleasure is stunning, so smooth, and depraved. Tom is going to fuck her arse. The boy who constantly competes with her, despises her, is looking at her with roving eyes, drinking every detail of her reactions in. Surely, he can’t dislike her completely? Even if the pollen made them do it, they didn’t have to go all the way like this. 

“Fuck, Hermione, so bloody tight.” Ton’s face is scrunched with what looks like pain, and he grips her hips tightly, slowly rocking his cock up and into her. His chest, something she hadn’t thought to look at before, is chiseled perfection, his nipples standing out in the cold air, the dip of his pectorals shadowed under the greenhouse light. He’s so beautiful, so gorgeous and hers in this moment, and she wants to keep it forever. 

His movements are good, better than good, and she thinks she’ll come apart again soon, given the fiery touch coiling up her spine. Arousal from the stretch of his cock is gnawing at her, coaxing little moans from her throat. 

Tom continues to fuck her now, pulling her arse up and down on him, his fingers trailing back to touch at the seam where his cock meets the ring of muscle that is contracting over him again and again. Her thighs ache where they meet the tops of Tom’s and she can feel the strength of him under her as she undulates. 

She wants to kiss him, plunder him, rub her mouth against the plush of his lips. She drags her fingers down Tom’s chest, her fingernails gently scraping at the soft skin there as his breath hitches. He’s enormous and perfect inside her, the grinding slide of his cock spending spasms to all the muscles of her cunt. She watches his face in fascination, Tom staring into her eyes, glittery and sharp. A hand reaches up to her face to cup her chin and she lets him.

“You’re mine after this. Every night and every day, whenever I want.” His admittance thrills her, and she doesn’t think about any of the consequences. Only the idea of being what he needs, at his beck and call. She doesn’t care if it’s the pollen. Maybe the pollen is right. Or maybe this is who she truly is. None of it matters. Her mind is static, loose, and full of Tom. 

A high whine exits her throat as Tom starts yanking her hips down onto him roughly. His eyes have become wide, desperate, the green sinking into pools of black. He leans up and bites down on the tendon of her neck, dragging his tongue along her pulse point before squeezing the globes of her arse together and around him. And that’s it, the tipping point. 

He clutches her as he goes over the edge, spilling hot and endless inside of her, no longer fucking through it but instead burying himself as deep as he can go. 

“Fuck, Hermione!” 

After, he pulls out letting his cum meander its way out of her onto the floor underneath her, and the sound it makes is salacious. 

Her legs slouch down off of Tom, the room spinning as she stands up. She can’t be sure the pollen is no longer in effect. She still wants Tom, badly. And from how hungry he looks now, she thinks he might want her too, but as soon as he sees her looking, his features become flat once more, as impersonal as he is in the classroom. 

They’re silent for a moment, Tom in the chair with his wet and deflated cock sitting lewdly on his thighs, Hermione dripping his cum out of her arsehole and down her legs in a slimy mess. 

“You know, after you orgasmed, you could have left me,” Tom says, looking comfortable in his own skin. 

“Left you alone? To deal with it yourself and possibly die? I’m not like you.” She spells away the mess then, not allowing his indifference to shake her. She doesn’t need Tom. She wants him, but need is an entirely different animal. 

“Who’s to say that you aren’t? I’m not sure you knew you had the option of stopping. I guess we’ll never know if I would have stayed.” He taps his wand on the chair, and his lips curve into a secretive smile that makes Hermione’s heart blossom with hope. 

“Oh I knew. But I’m willing to test the theory that I would stay, if you are,” she tries. 

“Abandoned Charms classroom on the fourth floor, after supper?” Merlin, yes. 

“You’re on, Riddle.”


End file.
